


Catharsis

by Samui_san



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, John's POV, and hyphens, and paragraphing, ish, liberal use of commas, might come back to edit this later, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san
Summary: John is breaking, and he knows it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Long time lurker here. This little piece popped into my head and I had to get it out, so please do tell me if you notice errors or mistakes. Constructive criticism, comments and kudos are appreciated. Enjoy!

There comes that moment when everything is still and the rush is stopped; the world holds in a breath as it thunders in towards a frigid silence. Then everything crashes down, cymbals clashing, crumbling. He's splintering at the seams until there's nothing left, nothing except this fire-

and he's burning, burning up hot and fiery but he _can't stop_ , he just keeps going-

keeps hurting and hurting and swinging and it's-

"No, it's ok" 

and his barriers slam back up, snap into place, cold hard steel against brittle glass that cracks, as his breath saws in his lungs and his knuckles sting in tempo with the flames licking under his skin, so red in contrast to the blue

blue

 _blue_ around him, pulling him in as those eyes suck him in, staring so guilelessly at him as if _what he did was absolutely fine but he knows it **wasn't** so **why**_ -

He turns. He turns, and he leaves, before that howling beast within him shatters the bars and floods the room with dark, screeching crimson, dripping down down in rivulets below those cerulean eyes.

There is no time to rest. They arrive; a flurry:

The disk. Marker on gleaming polycarbonate plastic and lacquer.

Miss Me? 

The video-the locked door (the heft of metal, slamming, _slamming_ until it splinters), the cane ("you utter cock!"), the confession ("they always give up after three")-it's all over quick, quick, quick as lightning flashes and soon

too soon

he's in the flat with those _blue eyes_ and the painful, forced smiles and the air hanging, drooping heavy with what needs to be said, and oh, he's warring with himself-

It's futile-he knows it-

yet he still stands, arguing with a spectre long dead (himself) that is urging him on ("make him wear the hat!") screaming at him as he leaves, steps away, withdraws-

 _yet again_ -

"Are you ok?"

and briefly, then he's back here again as the steps loom, jeer at him, laugh. It echoes, this bitter, missed opportunity-

A text alert.

The flames roar into life, his heart thuds harder in his chest, the monster reaches out; 

He has lost. 

He spills, and it's messy, jagged, raw-

but his barriers have shattered, there's _nothing_ left of him and he _can't_ , there are no more pieces to pick up, _the pieces are gone_ and **_it's not ok_** , the monster is wailing and screeching and everything is pouring out of him but a mug clinks against a table and warm arms circle around him-

warm breaths into his hair and a cheek resting on his head, a gentle pressure sliding up his back and a hand resting tender behind his neck and words, murmured, susurration:

**_It is what it is_ **

and the fire is banked; the roaring is muffled; the beast calms; _it's all fine_ echoes with the realisation that

perhaps

both of them are only human after all.


End file.
